


More Human

by commodorecliche



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Banter, Blinking, First Kiss, Flirting, Gentle Kissing, Intimacy, Kissing, Lessons in blinking, M/M, Romance, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snake behavior, blending in with humans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Crowley has mastered plenty of humanity’s numerous idiosyncrasies, but somehow has never gotten the hang of blinking.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 134
Collections: Crowley's Demonic Side, Get A Wiggle On Zine





	More Human

**Author's Note:**

> The exclusivity period for the Get A Wiggle On Zine has ended so now I can finally post the SFW piece I wrote for it!

**::**

Humans are tricky things. If Crowley has learned anything during the millennia he’s spent among them—and one might expect he’s learned at least a few things—it’s that they are quirky creatures. And neither Heaven nor Hell _ever_ seem to talk about this fact. 

Yes, celestial entities often like to bemoan their frequent annoyances with humanity, but they are superficial at best. ‘Humans have too many feelings, humans are tired all the time, humans take so long to travel, humans smell weird.’, The usual grievances. But these complaints never really get down to the _nitty-gritty_ of what, exactly makes humanity so _odd_. 

But, at the end of the day, Crowley rather likes humans. He’s fond of their cleverness, their determination, their ever-so-grey morality. But their idiosyncrasies do take some getting used to. 

For example, it is a known fact that many humans prefer to do things with one hand over the other. Crowley doesn’t know if they just like one hand more than the other and decide to favor it, or if they are somehow predetermined to pick a hand and only use it, but it’s interesting nonetheless. Right hands seem to be the social favorite, but some humans like the left, and some (perhaps the oddest of the bunch) like both hands equally well. 

Humans also seem to be strangely obsessed with cats: they take funny photos of them, they make silly _psspspsspss_ noises at them whenever they come near, they bring them into their homes and allow the cat to boss them around. Crowley finds this choice especially fascinating given that the humans’ first interaction with a cat outside the garden was a lion trying to maul them to death, but that’s neither here nor there. 

But the human thing that Crowley has always, and he does mean _always_ , had trouble understanding is _blinking_. 

Sure, humans aren’t the _only_ earthly creatures to blink, but they seem to be the only ones who really like to do it. And they’re definitely the ones who _really_ notice if someone _doesn’t_ blink. 

Snakes, if anyone is wondering, do not blink. No eyelids, you see? No eyelids, no blinking. Snakes are scaly creatures: scales galore across the entire body, including the eyes. Crowley never meant to be a snake. But after the fall, his superiors determined that a serpentine figure was the most suitable for his soul. It’s not what he would have chosen for himself but ultimately, it is his. He’s used to it. As such, Crowley has _never_ had much use for casual blinking. He does close his eyes once in a while, sure—he loves a good snooze, or even a relaxing rub of his eyes, whenever he is in his human vessel, but he has always considered his eyelids to be more or less decorative. He’s a demon, after all. Even if he weren’t rather snake-ish, he still wouldn’t have much need or reason to blink regularly. 

Humans, as it turns out, are _all_ about blinking. With their delicate, dry eyes, their eyelids seem to be their only defense for keeping their oculi functional at all, and that’s not even considering the fact that some human eyes are barely functional in the first place. Many of them can’t even see worth a damn without using refractory lenses. Never shy of critiquing the Almighty’s supposedly _perfect_ handiwork, Crowley has to wonder _exactly_ what She was thinking when She made those messed up little orbs and popped them into the skull. 

But that doesn’t matter now, because as it stands, humans love to blink. 

And, as it turns out, they notice _very_ quickly if someone else _doesn’t_ blink. 

Aziraphale seems to have made a rather easy habit of blinking. Crowley has to figure it’s all that reading he likes to do—the reading itself doesn’t cause any physical strain on his angelic eyes, but Crowley imagines it’s easier to make a habit of closing or rubbing one’s eyes when they’ve endured prolonged and heavy focus. 

Or perhaps Aziraphale is just much better suited to blending in amongst the humans. 

Either way, Aziraphale blinks just like he’s supposed to, and no human pays him any extra mind. 

Crowley, not for lack of trying, often doesn’t blink like he’s supposed to do. It’s a difficult habit to pick up. Plus, it’s easy enough to hide his eyes these days, what with sunglasses being a regular staple of human fashion. But there are plenty of times when sunglasses simply aren’t acceptable attire, leading to more questions than is worth the trouble. To some degree, Crowley is accustomed to humans looking at him strangely, even when he’s gone through the effort of reshaping his pupils and irises to look more ‘normal’. They still sense, even if only slightly, that he isn’t quite… _like them_ . But nothing drives that feeling home more than if they notice him not blinking. And they notice _quickly_. 

So Crowley tries to blink. 

But come on, he’s a demon; he’s not perfect. We can’t all be angels, after all. 

**::**

The blinking issue comes to a head on a cold evening in London in the 90s. The royal family is hosting some sort of birthday charity gala, all for a good cause or something or other. Crowley doesn’t pay too much attention to the details, all he knows is that Downstairs insisted he slither up and make some trouble. After all, what better place to sow avarice than at a _charity_ event hosted by some of the richest, most corrupt human beings on the planet. Sure, not all of them are beyond redemption, but the number of politicians, socialites, celebrities, and royal family members willing to bend to greed with only the slightest nudge is assuredly more than zero. 

About half the group though, Crowley senses as he moseys through the crowd, are actually here to try and do some good in the world, however misguided their efforts might be. Which is why, he figures, Aziraphale has elected to attend, as well. 

He spots the angel from across the room—a bright and glowing figure amidst a crowd of try-hard blue-bloods, dressed in a tuxedo so white Crowley might’ve guessed Heaven ordered him to wear it. Even so, Crowley smiles when he sees him, and weaves his way through the throngs of people to greet him. 

Aziraphale sees Crowley approaching almost immediately, and the smallest hint of a grin flashes onto the angel’s lips. He catches himself quickly, though, and replaces the expression with dutiful stoicism. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says as Crowley closes in on him, his prosaic tone masking the fondness that tends to drip from his voice when he speaks to the demon. 

Crowley smiles, wicked and affectionate.

“Angel. Should’ve figured you’d be here.” 

Aziraphale hmmphs indignantly. 

“I should’ve figured _you’d_ be here—what is the task for the day, then? Tempt a perfectly innocent philanthropist into evil?” 

“Oh, please, if they were perfectly _innocent_ , I wouldn’t even be here.” 

Aziraphale cocks his head briefly in sullen acknowledgement. 

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t…” 

“Don’t get those pretty white pants in a bunch, I’m feeling lazy.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t respond but another grin flashes briefly onto his lips. Something strange and vaguely human clenches in Crowley’s chest, and he chooses, for now, to ignore it. Aziraphale dares a glance at him; his expression is soft at first, but is quickly replaced by a concerned furrow of his brow. 

“My dear, I’d remove your sunglasses and right your eyes if I were you…This isn’t exactly the setting for extraneous eyewear. I’d hate for you to draw any… _untoward_ attention.” 

Crowley tosses his head back with a cackle. 

“I thought these were supposed to be caring and understanding philanthropists, they can’t handle some sunglasses indoors?” 

“They aren’t _that_ understanding; you wouldn’t be here otherwise, now would you?” 

Crowley smirks, reveling in Aziraphale’s admission of the malice that lives within this group. But nonetheless, he nods and focuses his energy on his eyes. It takes only a few seconds, but he can feel the anatomical shift—his pupils widen and become round, the iris loses its distinctive yellow, replaced instead with a tawny brown. 

He slips his sunglasses off and places them neatly in his breast pocket before he turns his attention to Aziraphale for approval. 

“Better?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale’s attention snaps towards a woman in a long, baby blue gown sauntering towards them. “And just in time, it would seem.” 

Crowley follows his gaze and takes the woman in. She seems fairly normal—a blasé mesh of good and evil, and not really worth his time to tempt. Aziraphale leans in close to whisper in his ear. 

“Amalia Beckett, investment banker, married to an American Wall Street mogul. Usually has good and kind intentions, but often succumbs to the…ruthless disregard for human life that her profession requires.” 

Crowley cocks his head, intrigue settling over his face. Maybe she’s worth tempting after all. 

“Mr. Fell!” The woman coos as she approaches. Aziraphale plasters on a smile and leans in to meet her greeting kiss. 

“Amalia, my dear, you look radiant as ever.” 

“As do you,” she says and looks him up and down, “Why, in all that white, you look ready for a wedding.” 

Amalia pauses to take a sip of her champagne—Dom Perignon, of course—and turns her attention to Crowley. 

“And who is your…handsome _companion_?” 

There is a hint of playfulness in her voice that sits oddly in Crowley’s stomach. There is a hidden meaning behind her words, but Crowley cannot seem to grasp the subtle accusation. She glances between him and Aziraphale, a knowing grin on her lips as if she knows something he does not. He’s grateful that Aziraphale decides to introduce him before he has to come up with something to say. 

“This is Mr Crowley, he’s an old friend.” 

Crowley smirks, shooting Aziraphale a soft glance out of the corner of his eye. Amalia’s eyes remain fixated on him, and he notices that she has now offered her hand to him. He glances back at her face before taking her hand into his own and giving it a firm shake. He’d debated kissing it, but something had told him he’d endear himself to her more with a solid grip than a delicate kiss. 

“Amalia Beckett, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet a… _friend_ of Mr Fell’s.” 

She smiles coyly at him, mischievous and playful, as if she knows a secret that Crowley does not. Amalia looks Crowley over for another moment before her eyes land once again on his face. Crowley can’t help but notice that she has yet to release his hand, and she now has been staring at his face for far longer than humans generally find comfortable. Heat flares up his spine, into the back of his head. He’s unable to interpret the strange look of sudden confusion on her face. Her sly grin begins to fade the longer she stares at him, until eventually she pulls her hand away, abrupt in her motions. 

Aziraphale clears his throat, regaining Amalia’s attention and asking her a question regarding the gala. But despite Aziraphale’s efforts, Amalia’s focus never strays from Crowley’s face. Crowley tries not to look at her, but each time he lifts his head, hoping that she might be looking at Aziraphale, she remains focused on him. 

Aziraphale’s arm wraps suddenly around his waist—casual, giving the appearance of normality to Amalia. He presses against Crowley’s lower back as Amalia replies to whatever question he has asked her, and, in a tone too low for Amalia’s human ears to hear, he whispers firmly: 

“ _Blink.”_

 _“What?”_ Crowley hums back. Amalia’s voice continues to drone in the background.

_“Blink. You aren’t blinking.”_

_Fuck_ , Crowley thinks to himself. Amalia’s eyes are still laser-focused on his face, and so, in a motion that is far more awkward and slow than might be considered human, Crowley forces his eyes shut and then back open. 

That, however, only seems to make it worse. 

Amalia’s uneasy, forced smile shifts immediately to perturbation.

“I uh,” Amalia mutters, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale, “I should head to the auction. Good to see you, Mr Fell.” 

And with that, she scurries away from them. 

Aziraphale sighs—exasperated—and turns to look at Crowley. 

“Honestly, you’ve been on Earth for 6,000 years and that’s the best you’ve got?” 

**::**

It is a minor miracle that he and Aziraphale survive the rest of the night with minimal human interaction, and Crowley is tempted to chalk it up to Aziraphale’s divine interference preventing anyone else from speaking to them for too long. Crowley is thankful, even if he’ll never admit it. Afterwards, Crowley follows him, without question or objection, to the bookshop. 

“I will admit, it’s a delicate balance,” Aziraphale tells him as he locks the door behind them and miracles the lights on and the blinds closed. He quickly miracles both Crowley and himself back into their normal clothes, “But I must say, dear boy, I am _shocked_ that you haven’t gotten the hang of something as simple as _blinking_.” 

Crowley shrugs, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he raids Aziraphale’s liquor cabinet, settling on a nice Delamain cognac. He pours two glasses and passes one off to Aziraphale, who has settled down into his favorite armchair. He watches Crowley expectantly as he sits on the couch. 

“Never needed to,” Crowley mutters around the rim of the glass. 

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. Crowley sighs and pulls up his sleeve, pointing to his arm. The skin there glimmers with the remnants of scales peppering his delicate human vessel. 

“Serpent of Eden and all that? Snakes don’t blink.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods his understanding. “It just takes practice. Blink too much, and they think something’s off. Don’t blink at all, and they’re terrified.” 

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale; they _should_ be terrified of me.” 

“Come now, they don’t have _all_ to quake in their loafers at the sight of you. Are you that concerned about your _demonic reputation_?” 

Crowley lifts his head from his hand to stare at Aziraphale indignantly. 

“The folks Downstairs are certainly concerned with it.” 

Aziraphale nods, but says nothing. Crowley pauses, and waits in the silence, before clearing his throat. 

“You don’t seem to struggle with it,” Crowley remarks, dragging his glass to his lips, “Blinking, that is.” 

Aziraphale shrugs. 

“I suppose not. I’ve always tried to…immerse myself fully into human culture. They’re wonderfully quirky, aren’t they? I’ve found the more I bury myself in their idiosyncrasies, the happier I am.” 

“Worked out for you, then?” 

“I should say so.” 

Crowley hums in acknowledgement. Another pause lingers between them as Crowley swallows a gulp of cognac. Aziraphale mimics the action. 

“I could show you some tricks if you like.” 

“Wuh?” Crowley mumbles around the edge of his glass. 

“Blinking—I could try to teach you to… do it better. There are some tricks to it.” 

“Oh?”

Aziraphale nods and sets his drink on his desk. He scoots his chair forward so that he is sitting directly in front of Crowley. The room suddenly feels infinitely smaller and yet too large for the two of them. Crowley swallows thickly and sinks further into the couch. Aziraphale motions for him to sit up, which he does, albeit reluctantly. 

Aziraphale removes Crowley’s glasses in one fell swoop. He plants his hands firmly on Crowley’s shoulders and his fingers squeeze the human body beneath his clothes. Gooseflesh prickles across his skin, and Crowley forces himself to suppress a shudder. 

“The trick,” Aziraphale tells him, “is to _feel_ your eyes.” 

“Mmm?” Crowley forces out, unable to form anything more coherent. 

“Yes. Keep them open, and look at me.” 

Crowley nods and does _not_ look away. 

“Now…feel your eyes. Don’t move your gaze, just feel it. Feel the tingle in your eyelids, that sensation of being open for too long. Feel your eyes begin to grow dry, becoming tickled and itchy.” 

Crowley’s breath stutters, but he doesn’t dare look away from Aziraphale’s pointed gaze. Aziraphale has blinked a few times now—quick and natural, as though he were meant to live in his human body. 

Aziraphale leans in closer, his hands drifting down over Crowley’s shoulders and deltoids, down towards the taut sinew of his biceps. His fingers are a firm and comforting presence along the contours of his vessel. Crowley’s eyes grow heavier as Aziraphale’s touch continues. Aziraphale squeezes and strokes the length of Crowley’s forearms, before his hands lazily meander back up to his shoulders. 

His fingers walk their way along the tendons of Crowley’s neck and his hands cup his jaw. He strokes Crowley’s face gently with his thumbs. Beneath the weight of tenderness and touch, Crowley shudders, borderline shaking, and he aches to close his eyes, but he doesn’t want to look away. 

Aziraphale caresses Crowley’s hair with one hand as the other continues carefully stroking Crowley’s cheek. He stares into Crowley’s eyes as they grow hazier and half-lidded. Aziraphale smiles. 

“They feel heavy, don’t they?” he whispers. 

Crowley nods with a whimper. 

“Yes…” 

“So close them.” 

And Crowley does. He blinks—closed then open, brief and normal and human—before he shudders and lets his eyes fall closed completely with a heavy breath. 

Without a word, Aziraphale leans forward and presses their lips together, chaste and soft, with the tenderness of long-lived lovers. Crowley’s breath stutters and quivers as Aziraphale withdraws, his head instinctually trying to follow him as he goes. 

He keeps his eyes closed though, and Aziraphale strokes his cheek again. 

“You’re more human than you think,” Aziraphale whispers, before leaning in to claim another kiss. 

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks everyone! Come shout at me on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche)!
> 
> [reblog on tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/635810325649866752/title-more)


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